To Russia, with love
by soulback
Summary: When superhero activity is criminalised, genius-inventor!Steven must fight for everything he holds dear - not least, his relationship with superhero Nuwanda!Charlie.  Total Steven/Charlie crackfic fluff au, with a heavy dose of flashbacks.
1. The beginning!

**It's here! The spin-off to the Charlie/Steven chapter of 'If I Should Die...'! I'm super (no pun intended) excited about this story, except that it's turning out to be rather long and so far I've only written a third of it. I would normally wait till finishing a story before publishing it, but I'm hoping that posting this first chapter might get me off my butt to write the rest?**

**Please review! It'll help me write faster, and I would love your suggestions of anything you'd like to see happen. (I have lots of room in the story to add new ideas.)  
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**Disclaimer: the DPS isn't mine (if it was, it would have ended differently...)**

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><p>One day, Steven Meeks arrives home from work to find his (upper-east side) penthouse apartment completely overturned, with a half-naked Charlie running around in it like a whirling dervish, throwing hats and shoes and other items of clothing into an oversized suitcase in the middle of the lounge.<p>

"Charlie," says Steven, carefully placing his briefcase on the one clear space he can find on his previously spotless workbench, "What's going on?"

"Pack your bags, Stevie!" yells Charlie, disconnecting a lamp from the wall and then, on second thoughts, dropping it back to the floor. "We're going to Russia!"

"To Russia?" Steven furrows his brow.

"Yes. The flight leaves at eleven. So pack your bags," Charlie repeats.

"Oh," says Steven, as he calmly sorts through the mess of papers on the bench. "But why does our apartment look like the FBI hit it in a drugs bust?"

"You're not packing!" says Charlie, leaping from the lounge to the kitchen and grabbing Steven's wrists. "Why aren't you packing?"

"You said the flight leaves at eleven," says Steven, rationally. "And it's only five thirty now. There's plenty of time to sort this mess out and have a cup of tea first."

"Nggh!" says Charlie. He throws his hands in the air.

"Besides," says Steven. "You haven't told me what's going on."

"_This_," says Charlie. He shoves a folded piece of paper in front of Steven's nose. "_This _is what's going on." He leans on the bench and watches Steven adjust his glasses and carefully unfold the paper.

"_Dear Sirs. We regret to inform you that the Federal Bureau of Investigation – _so the FBI does have something to do with this?"

"Too slow, too slow!" Charlie snatches the paper from Steven's hands, and waves it about. "Basically the FBI have decided, in their _infinite_ wisdom, to criminalise all unauthorised superhero activity – "

"But that's us – " says Steven, pushing his glasses up his nose.

" – on the grounds that it's too bloody dangerous."

"But they _need _us."

"It's not just us, Stevie. Gravity Girl, The Masked Hawk, Wonderfish – those fuckers in the FBI have shut down every single one of us and confiscated our stuff – "

"They've confiscated – what? What have they taken?" Finally, a hint of anger threatens to ruffle Steven's otherwise placid countenance. He runs from the kitchen to the living room, swirling through the mess of upturned furniture, strewn books, and broken ornaments.

"The boots?"

"Gone."

"The wings?"

"Gone."

"The _costume_?"

"Gone – Steven, Steven, hold still – " Charlie grabs him by the shoulders as the smaller man threatens to hyperventilate.

"Todd spent _ages _on that costume," he whispers. "What about my – my – " His gaze drifts back to the bench space, where he keeps his notebook.

"The place was like this when I got home from the drycleaners. They were quick, Stevie. I was only gone ten minutes. There was nothing I could do."

Charlie leads him to sit on the couch, and pours him a stiff drink from the remains of the liquor cabinet.

"So why are we going to Russia?" Steven finally manages to ask, as the alcohol washes over his nerves.

"Because we need to get a license. They need to say our gear is safe to use – "

"Of _course_ it's safe," Steven says, crossly. "I invented it."

" – and then we fill in a heap of forms, and the FBI gets off our backs. Or that's the idea, anyway."

"But – why _Russia_?"

"Presumably because they're evil bastards," says Charlie, leaving Steven on the couch and dragging a second suitcase from the bedroom. "And evil bastards, as you know, like to live in the cold, wear wolverine-fur hats, and drink cheap vodka."

"That's surely a stereotype."

"Our lives are built on stereotypes," says Charlie.

Steven watches Charlie for a long moment, then quietly sets about clearing up the mess the FBI agents made. He tries to get Charlie to be more methodical and less ridiculous in his packing, as he surveys their apartment, hands on hips.

"It'll be okay, Stevie," Charlie says. "They'll give us our license. I'll still be a dashing superhero, and you'll still be my sexy librarian-type inventor. Actually, can we play sexy-librarians before we go?"

_But what if it's not okay_? Steven smiles wanly as Charlie bounds into the bedroom. He doesn't ask, because he doesn't need to ask questions to which he already knows the answer; he doesn't need to hear answers that are only going to hurt.


	2. and there was flight

**Le Chapter Two.**

**DPS isn't mine. Review and I'll love you forever.**

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><p>Steven remembers when it all began, four and a half years ago. It was a warm Saturday night in June. He and Charlie had been living together for the past six months in Steven's tiny two-room apartment, out of convenience more than anything else; Charlie didn't have a place in the city, and Steven had a couch.<p>

"It's ready," Steven said, from where he sat cross-legged at his workstation on the floor – the only available space his tiny apartment afforded.

Charlie had been dozing on the couch and mumbling the name 'Ursula' in his sleep – which amused Steven in some ways and in other ways wasn't quite so funny – but Steven's voice must have cut through his dreams because he was awake in an instant, feet on the floor and staring at Steven, wide-eyed.

"It's ready?"

"Yes. Yes, I think so."

"What are we waiting for?" Charlie jumped up. "Let's try this bad boy out!"

"What, here?" Steven looked nervously at his balcony door. "You're not going to test it _here_."

"No," said Charlie. "I'll borrow a car. We'll go to the country. Fuck, Steven, is it really ready?" He ran a hand through his hair and stared down at the ordered mess of bicycle tubing, canvas, and dubious gold-coloured boots.

Steven smiled up at Charlie. He removed his glasses, and yawned. "Let's get this show on the road."

In half an hour, they were cruising out of Manhattan and through the city; it was after midnight when they pulled off the country highway and ran the car through a wire fence of a sheep paddock.

"This is it!" whooped Charlie, tooting the horn and causing some rather startled-looking sheep to scatter.

"Mind the car," muttered Steven, bracing himself.

Charlie brought the car to a shuddering stop just in front a tree, and ran around to the boot, leaving Steven to remove the keys from the engine and store them safely in his pocket. When Steven found Charlie he was already lacing up the second boot, as excited as a kid trying out a new pair of skates.

"Careful with that," said Steven, helping Charlie to unfold the black canvas wings. Charlie insisted on removing his t-shirt, in an effort (he said) to look more god-like – especially as he had painted another lightning bolt on his chest for the maiden voyage – and he stood as patiently as possible while Steven fitted the harness across his shoulders and secured it around his waist.

Steven stood back to view the total effect; and there before him was the modern day Icarus of his imagination.

"Dear God, I hope this works," he said.

"It's bound to," said Charlie. "You're a genius, remember?"

Steven just wished he had some of Charlie's confidence, as he made last minute adjustments to the straps and instructed Charlie on how to open and close the wings, using the two cords that hung down the front, and how to kick start the rocket boots.

Finally, Steven led Charlie into the middle of the field – well away from the car, the tree, and the surly sheep – and declared him ready for take-off.

"Five – four – three – "

"Stand back, Stevie!"

" – two – one – "

" – I'm gonna fly!"

For a moment, nothing happened. And then just as Charlie was giving Steven a quizzical look, he shot twenty feet into the air in an explosion of noise and smoke.

"Yaaaaaugh!"

"It's working," said Steven, removing his glasses. "It's actually working – "

But once Charlie had made his complete ascent, though, the only way up was _down_.

"Pull the cord!" yelled Steven, as Charlie made his inevitable, hurtling descent to the ground. "_Pull the cord_ – oh, I can't watch."

And then a beautiful thing happened – the black canvas wings opened up behind him, the wind picked up beneath him, and he went sailing back into the sky in a graceful arc of light and heat.

"I'm _flying_!"

"I know!"

"I'm _flying, _Steven_! _I'm a fucking_ bird_!"

With whoops and yells Charlie soared through the midnight air, while Steven watched, spellbound. Charlie had some intuition about how to use the wings and he made flying look the most natural thing in the world. Steven hugged himself, his face lit up in the trail of Charlie's glory. He was beautiful.

Eventually the boots ran out of gas, and Charlie landed rather awkwardly in some sheep poo; then immediately demanded another go. Steven produced a bottle of petrol from the boot of the car, and then sat on the bonnet and dreamt of big things for them, while Charlie practiced flying, working on hook-turns and loop-a-loops. When he ran out of gas from the bottle, he siphoned it out of the tank of the car, until Steven reminded him that they needed enough gas to get home.

"We'll fly home," said Charlie.

"No. Absolutely not," said Steven.

"Spoil sport," said Charlie with a grin, before he shot into the sky again, straight up this time, like a bullet. Steven was just looking around for signs of the winged-boy-man when he heard a _whoosh_ behind him, and next thing he felt himself being lifted off the car bonnet from behind, as easily as a mouse being captured by a hawk.

"Charlie!" Steven closed his eyes as the wind streamed past his face, a sudden onset of vertigo making him woozy.

"Look!" yelled Charlie, in his ear. "_Look_!"

At Charlie's insistence, Steven dared to open his eyes a tiny fraction – and then he gasped. Far below them were the car, the tree, and the sheep, like toy figurines in the blue light – and in the distance, New York City burned brightly, a star on the horizon. Charlie wrapped his arms tighter around Steven's middle as they sailed through the air, and Steven's heart flipped. He didn't want to be such a girl about it, but he had to admit that, flying aside, there was something incredibly _comfortable_ about being held in the arms of someone much bigger and stronger than himself, that made his blood run warm –

- his thoughts were interrupted by the disquieting sounds of Charlie's left boot cutting out, and, at the same time, the rip of canvas on Charlie's right wing. They spiralled to the ground, Charlie's one good wing flapping uselessly about them.

"Hold on!"

They crash landed in the middle of the field, and Steven's next discernible thought was that it wasn't quite so comfortable to have someone much bigger and stronger than himself lying on top of him in this way, and that as a consequence he wasn't getting much air in his lungs.

Charlie groaned pathetically and whimpered something about his arm.

"Ngggh!"

"Are you okay?" asked Charlie.

"_Ngggh!_"

"Are you hurt? Where are you hurt?"

Steven flapped his hands about and made desperate _I can't breathe, you big oaf_ faces.

"Oh, shit!" Charlie pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, and Steven gulped air in greedily like a marathon runner while Charlie poked Steven's face worriedly, until Steven finally managed to swat at his hand and said "Stop that, you idiot, I'm alive"; then he found himself lost for breathe for the second time as Charlie kissed him, fiercely and possessively, in the long grass with the moon rising above them and the black canvas wings ruffling about them.

And then Charlie grinned at him and said "You're a genius" again and helped him to his feet, and Steven knew that here at last he had given Charlie the one thing he craved; but as he followed Charlie back to the car, wings trailing behind them, he also knew that one day he would run out of ideas and he would be boring and dull, and the next day, Charlie would run out of love; and he had always known this, ever since high school. But this time he decided not to worry about it, not yet; he had a few years' worth of ideas to keep Charlie entertained, so he wouldn't think about their inevitable downward spiral just yet; and he was happy. And that is how it all began.


	3. some stuff happened, other stuff didn't

**(okay, this is a strong 'T', for language and other things. but 'M' would be misleading... also, 6/9 chapters are written, so expect frequent updates, and then - nothing. *evil laughter*)  
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**Disclaimer: I own DPS - oh, wait, I mean I _don't_ own DPS. whew. good thing we got that sorted.**

**I'm always up for reviews and reviewing. (You scratch my back, I'll scratch yours...)**

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><p>"I fucking hate flying," says Charlie, gripping the arm rests and staring straight ahead at the tray table in the upright position in front of him.<p>

"You don't need me to point out the irony of that, do you?" asks Steven. He flips through the in-flight magazine and tries to read an article about viticulture in southern Spain, but the sight of Charlie strangling the end of his seatbelt in his hands is distracting. "Relax," he says kindly, lowering his magazine. "We haven't even taken off yet. What are you so worried about?"

"I'm not – _worried_," Charlie says, whispering the word. "Do you think I'm worried?"

"No," says Steven.

"Is that what you think? That I'm scared of flying?"

"No," repeats Steven. "I said nothing." He rolls his eyes and disappears back behind his magazine, as Charlie drums his fingers impatiently on his leg.

"I mean I don't know who's flying the plane. One hundred fucking people on this plane, and we haven't even _seen _the pilot. He could be a twelve year old boy for all we know."

"Yes, but he's probably _not_," says Steven. "Anyway, they say flying's safer than crossing the road."

Charlie snorts. "Well, that may be true if you live in a – city – that has, like – really bad drivers – " he finishes the sentence lamely as the plane starts rumbling down the runway, slow at first but picking up speed with a rush. As they lift off the ground, Charlie grabs Steven's hand. Hard. For the entire ascent. But Steven doesn't complain, because Charlie needs him. That's just how it is.

The moment the plane is cruising at a comfortable 30 000 feet, however, Charlies leans across to speak low into Steven's ear. "So – you want to go join the mile high club?"

"The seatbelt light is on," says Steven, as if that's his biggest consideration. He flexes his white, bone-crushed fingers. "We're not going anywhere."

"Fine, I'll find a hot stewardess to – actually, they're _all_ hot. _Damn_."

"Charlie – " Steven's voice falters.

"Yes, my bespectacled pumpkin?"

_You were scared half a minute ago. You practically broke my hand. Now you want to bonk an air stewardess._

"Nothing," he says.

There is a soft 'bing' sound overhead and the little red seatbelt light turns off. Charlie winks at Steven, scrambles out of his seat, and heads down the aisle. Steven sighs and looks out the window – but it's dark outside, and with the lights on in the cabin, all Steven can see is a reflection of his own pale, worried face; and then the reflection of an stewardess in a tight blue uniform walking behind.

"Excuse me," he says, pushing past her, and blushing profusely. "Excuse me – sorry – emergency."

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><p>Moscow is cold, and the double bed Steven and Charlie have created from the two single beds in the hotel room is even colder. Charlie lies with his back to Steven, breathing deeply. Steven stares at the ceiling, watching the trails of light from the cars outside.<p>

He tries not to think about their future together – tries not to _worry_ about it, because, as the little inspirational quote on his office wall says, 'worry is a misuse of your imagination' – but the rather sloppy high-altitude fuck they had in the toilet cubicle, and the appreciative _looks_ that the flight stewardesses, the token flight steward, the lady at the security desk, and the service staff at the hotel have given Charlie since then, have done nothing to waylay Steven's worry.

"You're thinking, aren't you?"

"No, I'm not." Steven glances at the dark form of Charlie.

"Of course you are. You're awake, and you're not doing anything else, so you must be thinking."

"How did you know I was awake?"

"Because you're talking to me."

"Smartarse," says Steven.

Charlie rolls over. "I told you not to worry about this. It'll be fine."

"So you keep saying."

"Well, aren't I right?" Charlie props himself up on his elbow. Steven doesn't respond, and Charlie sighs. "You need to trust me. We'll sort this."

"Do you have a plan?"

"Do I have a plan?" Charlie snorts. "You're asking if I have a – okay, no. I don't have a plan. I don't _need_ a plan. I'm _Nuwanda_. So just relax."

Steven doesn't relax. Nuwanda can't keep them together if Nuwanda no longer exists_. _

"Come here," says Charlie, scooting over the gap in the bed and resting his hand on Steven's chest. He presses his lips to Steven's jaw; then pushes his t-shirt up and marks a trail of kisses down his stomach. Charlie's breath is warm – the only warm thing in the room – until his hands find their way to Steven's hips, and he starts tugging at the waistband of Steven's pyjama pants. Steven's breath hitches in his throat, and he wonders if he'll let Charlie solve all their problems with sex (and if that might not actually be such a bad idea) – but then he catches Charlie's face in his hands and pulls him away.

"We can't just – "

"Just what?" Charlie looks up, his voice rough and laden in the dark.

"This isn't really – it's not – "

"_Steven_."

Steven sighs. "It's not a plan, Charlie."

Charlie is incredulous, eyebrow raised and smirking. "You don't want _this_?"

Steven doesn't answer. Charlie waits, until the silence fills Steven's lungs and he can't say anything, even if he had something to say.

"Fine" Charlie grumbles. He rolls back onto his own bed, and pulls the blanket up over his shoulders. "Relax yourself. Goodnight."

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><p>The Top Secret Federal Bureau of Investigation Office in Moscow turns out to be a slim, not particularly difficult to find building tucked between an impressive pre-war bank and an overcrowded post-war apartment block.<p>

"This is it?" Steven asks dubiously, scrunching his nose as he looks at the grey impassive façade.

"It's the address stated in the letter," Charlie shrugs. "What did you expect? Security guards and robotic dogs? Barbed wire and secret-service men in black overcoats?"

"Something like that," says Steven. An icy wind blows right through his own overcoat, and he crosses his arms fiercely about his chest.

"Come on," says Charlie, bounding up the steps. "Let's get our license."

In the foyer of the grey building they approach the secretary behind the desk; she doesn't speak English and waves her hands non-committedly as she talks very quickly, then raises her eyebrows and frowns.

"Uh, here – " Steven fishes the letter out of his overcoat pocket, and smooths it out on the desk.

"Ahh – you are Nuwanda?" Suddenly the secretary is all smiles and batted eyelashes, as she escorts Steven and Charlie in the elevator to the sixth floor. She gestures at a couple of chairs in a long hallway, before winking at Charlie and giving him a long look. Finally she leaves.

Charlie grins at Steven, who can't help but sulk as he sits in one of the chairs. Charlie paces the hallway, peering at old photographs that line the walls and stopping to use the archaic drink fountain.

"I really thought this would be more difficult," says Steven.

"What?"

"More difficult. There must be a catch somewhere."

"Why would you think that?"

"Well, for one – because things usually are more difficult when they involve you, Charlie. There's always a twist."

"We had dry toast and a liqueur made of brake fluid for breakfast this morning because we couldn't understand the menu. Is that not difficult enough?"

Just then the door at the end of the hallway opens, and a short man in a well-tailored suit appears.

"Come through, if you please," he says. He has a slight accent, that is pleasing to the ear – soft and neat, like his appearance.

Charlie claps Steven on the back and gives him an 'I am so right about this' look, and saunters through the doorway. Steven sighs and follows him.

They're in an office. It is large but sparsely furnished, save for an enormous polished wooden desk devoid of all clutter (which Steven notices, appreciatively) that takes up half the room; and a tall-backed black leather chair behind the desk. The chair is facing the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooks lower Moscow. It is snowing outside.

The man in the grey suit approaches the desk, and coughs softly. "Mr Steven Meeks and Mr Charles Dalton to see you, sir."

Charlie shifts his weight to one foot and sticks his hands in his pockets, jauntily. "Just call me Char – "

"Charlie. Yes." The chair swivels around.

Charlie splutters; Steven whistles softly. This may be more difficult than either of them ever imagined.


	4. whiskey and a proposition

**(This was actually the first chapter I wrote for this fic. obvs things got changed around a little. presenting: LE CHAPTER FOUR. whoo!)**

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><p><em>It'll be easy. <em>

_What are you worrying about? _

_Leave it to me_.

Charlie has always been linguistically persuasive – not so much with _what_ he says, but the way he says it – his tone of voice, his eyebrows, his quirked mouth, his hands. Steven would never have been in this mess if Charlie wasn't such a smooth talker.

Now that he thinks about it, Steven supposes it all really began six months before the maiden voyage of Nuwanda!, when he arrived home from work to find Charlie Dalton sitting in his living room. He stood at the door with the keys still in the lock, looking from Charlie to the balcony door to the bathroom window and back again.

"Did someone let you in?" he finally asked.

"Is that how you greet your old friends?" Charlie retorted, leaning back on the couch with his arms spread across the back and one leg crossed over the other.

"If maintenance let you in then – well, then they're not doing a very good job of keeping the place secure." Steven removed the keys slowly, his eyes fixed on Charlie as if he might actually be a burglar.

"You've not got much worth nicking," said Charlie, looking around. That was true. Steven's flat was sparsely furnished, with the couch, a table, a single bed, and a dozen milk crates that served as storage – all neatly arranged, of course, but sparse nevertheless. "Are they not paying you enough at the patent office?"

"How did you know I worked at the patent office?" Steven shook his head as he closed the door, and ventured carefully into the lounge slash kitchen slash dining slash sleeping area.

Charlie tapped his nose, and smirked. Steven remembered that smirk; remembered it getting him into trouble more times than he cared to count in his high school days. "I know many things about you, Steven Meeks."

"Oh, really?" Steven folded his arms across his chest.

"I know you've been working with Greens and Co. for the past two years but you haven't yet been promoted. I know that you were engaged to be married but the girl dumped you. I know that you still read fantasy novels and comic books – "

" – so you looked through my stuff," Steven cut him off, annoyed. "Bravo. That's very clever of you."

"Hey, I never said I was Sherlock bloody Holmes. I was bored, so I had a snoop. You took longer to get home than I expected - "

"Very sorry," said Steven.

" - and I know that you're bored, too."

Steven shifted his weight from one foot to the other and then back again; the way he shifted from being enamoured with Charlie's cocky attitude to loathing his existence. "How do you know _that_?" he asked.

"So it's true then? You're bored?" Charlie grinned at Steven's exasperated face. "I _know you_, Stevie," he said, looking darkly through his lashes. "I know what you want; I know _this_ isn't what you want."

"What do _you_ want?" asked Steven.

"Got any whiskey?"

"No, I mean here – in my apartment – what do you want with _me_?"

Charlie folded his arms, mimicking Steven's solemn expression, until Steven sighed and took two glasses and a bottle of whiskey from the cupboard under the sink.

"By the way, the answer is 'no'," said Charlie, as Steven searched in the freezer for the ice tray.

"'No'?" He stuck his head around the freezer door.

"No, maintenance didn't let me in," said Charlie. "I came through the balcony door. You should consider locking that, by the way."

"I live on the third floor, in case you hadn't noticed. Generally people don't come climbing up to see if my door – wait, you _climbed _up here?" Steven asked, handing a glass to Charlie.

"Something like that. Well, actually I went up the fire stairs then climbed down from the roof, it was a bit easier."

"Whichever way you came – _why_?"

"To prove a point," Charlie said, shrugging his shoulders and knocking back the whiskey. He coughed. "Steven, this is foul."

Steven frowned. "Sorry it doesn't meet – no, I'm not sorry. What the fuck are you doing – "

"Ahh," Charlie grimaced, and rubbed his face with his hand. "I can see I've gone about this a bit wrong. The thing is, Steven – I wanted to ask you something. I need a favour."

"You. Need a favour." Steven raised an eyebrow incredulously. He knew all about Charlie and his 'favours'; once bitten, twice shy – so to speak.

But then Charlie got up and graciously offered the couch for Steven to sit on as he refilled Steven's glass from Steven's own whiskey bottle, and he talked into the evening, pacing the room and being earnest as he laid forth his plans; and Steven just sat there and watched this crazy lad, this crazy beautiful boy-man who had broken into his apartment and was offering him his very own dreams on a whiskey-smeared platter; and the five years between them dissolved into the night and Steven said 'you're insane' and 'are you high Charlie Dalton?' and, finally, 'yes' – and that, Steven supposes, was the real beginning.


	5. OH HI this chapter doesn't have a title

**Le chapter five**

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><p>Sitting in the chair is a slim freckled man in a navy pinstripe suit, gold rings on his fingers, and shocking red hair. He smiles.<p>

Charlie is the first to speak. "Richard fucking Cameron."

"Cigar?" Cameron calmly opens the top drawer of the desk and produces a box of Cubans.

"You must be joking," says Charlie.

"I never joke about cigars," says Cameron, sucking in as the man in the grey suit flicks a gold lighter he has apparently pulled from thin air.

Charlie turns to Steven and whispers, "Is this the kind of trouble you were hoping for?"

"So this is what you do these days," says Cameron, cigar wedged between his teeth. "Meeks and Dalton – the genius mastermind, and the loyal but ultimately useless superhero."

"_What_ did you – " Charlie starts, but Steven cuts him off.

"We came to get our license, Richard."

"Yes, I'm aware of that." Cameron puffs on the cigar, and rocks back in his chair. "Unfortunate that you had to come _such_ a long way."

Steven shoots a quick glance at Charlie. "Unfortunate? Why?"

"Because I'm not actually going to give you a license." Cameron blows a smoke ring and it hangs in the air, a placemarker in the conversation. Only when it disappears does anyone dare to speak.

"_What_?" says Charlie.

"Why not?" asks Steven.

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

"Richard, we're your _friends_ – "

"Give us our fucking license!"

"There's nothing wrong with – "

"Do you _want_ a knuckle sandwich?"

"Charlie, shut up – "

"Both of you can shut up," says Cameron, coolly watching Steven and Charlie practically fall over themselves in protest. "I'm not going to give you a license."

"But why not?"

"Because your designs are rubbish, Meeks. They're not safe."

"What do you _mean they're not safe_?" Steven takes a step forward, and Charlie has to grab him by the shoulder.

"They're not safe. They're unroadworthy. There are no – emergency brakes, no warning lights, no fuel gauge, no guarantee that Dalton here won't just fall out of the sky. Oh my God, Meeks. You made the wings out of bamboo sticks and _tarpaulin_ – I mean what were you _thinking_?" Cameron laughs, and Steven turns red to the tip of his ears – whether with rage or embarrassment, he's not even sure.

"Is this about high school?" asks Charlie. "Are you still mad about high school – "

Cameron sighs loudly, as if speaking to an idiot. "Guys – I'm the CEO of a company worth forty million dollars. I have a beautiful Russian wife who just happens to be a lingerie model, we have a gorgeous little daughter, and another baby on the way. We go for weekend getaways to France or Switzerland or the Bahamas, in my private jet; and at night, when I tuck my little girl in, she tells me I'm the best father in the world." He gets out of the chair and laughs. "I am not still mad about high school. Now – look, no hard feelings, okay? Why don't I take you out for lunch? Then you can get on the plane, go back to America, and stop wasting everyone's time."

"What's the _matter _with you?" Steven looks genuinely confused and hurt. "There's _nothing wrong _with – "

"Steven. Steven. Calm down." Cameron steps away from his desk and approaches the red-head. He clicks his tongue, and shrugs. "Your designs are rubbish. That's all." He reaches out to place a hand on Steven's shoulder.

So Charlie socks him in the jaw.

Big mistake.

In the matter of a moment, the pale calm man in the grey suit has Charlie in a headlock, and has a firm grip on Steven's arm.

"Okay, okay – we're going," says Steven, trying to placate Cameron.

"You really shouldn't have done that," Cameron says, ignoring Steven as he lightly massages his face and looks at his hand for signs of blood. "I could've let you redesign your gear. Given you a few tips – "

Steven frowns.

" – you could've gotten your license, Charlie Dalton. Been the biggest fucking superhero in the world. Well, you can forget about that now. Take them both away." He waves his hand airily, and turns back to his desk.

"You're _dead_, Cameron," yells Charlie, struggling against the grey man, in vain. The man calmly pushes the office door open and leads the two out. Charlie hollers abuse at Cameron all the way; Steven pays more attention to where they are being led, trying to keep track of the twists, turns, stairs, and elevators of the building – but it's a rabbit warren, and all he really knows is that they're going up.

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><p>They find themselves in a windowless, concrete room – in the light of the open door, Steven sees that it's very small, airtight, and completely empty. Then they're pushed inside and they fall on the floor. The door closes with a resounding thud, and it's pitch black.<p>

Charlie is immediately on his feet, banging at the door and twisting the handle, but it's no good – they are prisoners.

"Fuck's sake," says Charlie. He slides down and leans against the door.

Steven shuffles over to the far wall. With legs stretched out, he can just touch Charlie's feet with his own. He moves slightly to avoid the contact.

"Is this what you wanted?" Charlie mumbles. "This is the kind of trouble you expect when you're with me?"

Steven doesn't answer. Apparently his worst fears are coming true.

Charlie tries again. "You think this is my fault, don't you? You think this whole thing is my fault?"

"Well," says Steven. "You didn't have to punch Cameron."

"He deserved it!" says Charlie. "The self-righteous arrogant little – who does he think he is?"

"He didn't _do _anything."

"He insulted me, and then insulted you, and now you'll go back to being a patent officer – "

"He was willing to let me redesign the – "

"Whose side are you on, anyway?"

Steven hears Charlie scramble up, and there's danger in his voice. Steven draws his knees up to his chest. "This isn't high school, Charlie."

"Isn't it? Are you sure?"

Steven stares in Charlie's direction, listening to him pace the three feet of room in the dark. "What do you mean?"

"What I mean is, you're not going to wimp out on me again, are you, Stevie?" Charlie's voice is suddenly low and close.

"What are you doing?" asks Steven, quickly. A hand brushes against his cheek, and he jumps.

"Scared?"

Steven knows Charlie well enough to know that he's leering. He hesitates, says _no_, he's not scared. He feels soft breath against his face, and he closes his eyes – then Charlie snorts, and goes back to the door.

"I can't believe you," Charlie says.

Something makes Steven's heart stop – just for a moment. He's heard that tone of voice before; heard those exact words before, somewhere. At the time, he didn't register their meaning, too compelled he was with the face that went along with it. But now, in the dark, with no other cues, it hits him. It's not taunting or belittling or annoyance Steven hears this time. It's sadness.


	6. Charlie, in the greenhouse, with the

_High school_.

It was the year Neil died – that was the last time Steven saw Charlie as a boy, and _that's_ when this whole thing started.

For the longest time, Steven couldn't believe Neil was dead because he couldn't believe that Neil would actually kill himself. Todd, perhaps, caught in a cloud of worthlessness, might off himself; or Cameron, who was more prone to dramatics than most people realised – but not _Neil_. Neil was too creative, too bright, too friendly and happy and full of life. How could someone like Neil, Steven reasoned, not realise that life doesn't end just because one dream does – new dreams come along, or old dreams rear their heads again.

Now, Steven realises just how young they all were – barely pubescent teenagers, for goodness' sakes, running around at night and smoking pipes in caves and laughing at pictures of naked women. Steven and Pitts had spent an entire semester trying to build a radio. They had no idea.

Except for Charlie, of course. Charlie had an idea. Charlie knew what he wanted. Even if he wasn't exactly sure what that was.

Which is why, after Charlie had refused to sign Nolan's stupid piece of paper and consequently got expelled from Welton, he invited himself along to a party being held by one of the seniors on a balmy night in spring, and cornered Steven in the greenhouse.

"Why didn't you sign the paper?" Steven asked. He fiddled with cuff of his shirt, giving away the fact that while he desperately wanted to see Charlie, doing so was expressly against his parents' wishes.

"Why did you sign it?" Charlie returned.

"Because, in his own terrible way, Cameron had a point – " Charlie spat into a rose bush at the mention of the name, and Steven sighed. "Carpe diem is an excellent thing, but getting kicked out of school achieves nothing."

"So what _do_ you want to achieve, Meeks?"

Steven shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know. Something."

"Something?" Charlie sneered. "Come on – "

"I mean, I'd like to invent something. I want to make things."

"Okay, so – "

"- so I kinda need to go to uni. Which means I need to graduate from school. Which means I need to stay _in _school, if you see what I mean."

Charlie sat on the bench and pulled a crumpled cigarette from his pocket. He lit it carefully, and blew a smoke ring across a bed of azaleas.

"You don't need uni. You could build a car out of Knox's bicycle right now. Why don't you come with me, and we'll make something together."

"Come with you? Where are you going?"

"I don't know. Chicago, maybe. New York, Los Angeles. Wherever there's life."

"Are you serious?"

The smell of nicotine mingled with the scent of the tea roses. Steven felt light-headed. He sat next to Charlie and rested his head against the cool glass of the greenhouse wall.

"Well, I can't stay here," Charlie said. "I've practically blown all my opportunities in this town – "

"What about your father – "

"I'm not going to live off my father," Charlie growled. "I need to do this – I need to _be _this – this _thing_. And I want you to come with me."

"Why?"

"Because it's _us_!" Charlie shot to his feet, waving the cigarette around wildly and raising his voice. "It's you and me, Meeks. It's – "

"There isn't an 'us'," Steven said, breaking the dream of the lie before he became too attached to it.

"What are you talking about?" asked Charlie. "Of course there's an 'us'. There's always been an 'us'. There'll always _be _an 'us'. Come with me, we'll fight crime and stick it to the man. What do you say, Meeksy?"

Every part of Steven wanted to say 'yes' – every part of him, except the part of him that was rational; the part of him that wanted to get through life without having his heart broken by a manic demi-god who didn't even realise the power of his own words; the part of him that was scared.

"Principles are great," Steven said, softly. "But I can't live by them."

Charlie waited. Steven had no other answer. So he stomped out his cigarette, and sauntered over to the greenhouse door, hands in his pockets. "I can't believe you."

And Steven had thought that meant he was weak or pathetic or boring. Charlie couldn't believe how boring he was.

If he'd heard then what he hears now, the next ten years might have turned out very differently; but he didn't and they didn't. They only turned out the way they did, in that funny old way things have. And that's how it all began.


	7. run

**Chapter seven! Very excited if you're still reading this. Only two more chapters to go, in which the world will dissolve to fluff - but in the meantime, something vaguely action-based. (ugh. action sequences)**

* * *

><p>"So. What are we going to do?"<p>

Silence reigns. Steven takes off his glasses, as if that might help him see Charlie better in the dark. He hasn't heard a sound from Charlie's corner of the room since - Steven realises he has no idea how much time has elapsed. It's probably only been a couple of hours. It feels like days - and now he wonders if Charlie's gone to sleep or somehow, _somehow_, escaped the little concrete cell and has left him here by himself. It'd probably serve him right.

"I said – "

"I heard you," says Charlie, quietly.

" – so?"

"Steven Meeks. Always wanting a plan. Tell you what, you're so good at inventing things, why don't you come up with a plan to get us out of here?"

Steven sighs. He did have a plan, once - but somehow his plans never accounted for Charlie punching people. He rubs the bridge of his nose. Sometimes that helps him think. Except right now, all it's helping him to think is that he's been a complete and utter idiot.

At least, he hopes so.

And when there's hope, anything can happen.

"Okay." says Steven. He waves his hands in the air – maybe his fingers will grasp at a plan neither of them has yet seen. "Why don't we – "

"Shh!" Charlie leaps across the room, and drags Steven to his feet. He claps his hand over Steven's mouth. "_Listen_." Hand still gagging Steven, Charlie leads him to the door, and presses his own ear against it. "Someone's coming." He pushes Steven into the corner, so that they'll be behind the door when it opens.

"Charlie – " whispers Steven. Charlie shuts him up with his hand again. By the tiniest margin, Steven decides against biting it. Now he can hear it, too – the heavy tread of someone approaching. When he listens closer, he thinks he can actually hear the pounding of Charlie's heart as well.

Maybe his other senses have been heightened in the dark. Maybe he just knows Charlie too well. He feels Charlie raise his free arm; hears the jingle of keys at the lock; sees the sliver of light, so bright it hurts his eyes. He's behind Charlie; he's not strong enough to stop him.

A man in navy blue – a guard of some kind – appears in the doorway.

"Yaaugh!"

Charlie thwacks the guard in the back of the neck – he's not a small man, but in despite of that – or maybe because of it – he goes down like a tower of cards, and the tray of food he's carrying flies across the room, pushing Steven's abandoned glasses out of the way. Charlie pins him down and grabs his keys, then pushes Steven out of the room and locks the guard inside.

"_Charlie_ – "

Charlie looks up and down the narrow hallway. It's empty. "Which way did we come in?"

"Uh – from the left – "

"Great." Charlie drags Steven to the right.

"He was just bringing us food – they'd probably have released us by the afternoon – it was just procedure – where are we going, anyway?"

"Not that way!" Charlie spots two more guards at the end of another hallway. He grabs Steven by the wrist, and yanks him down through a second doorway. Too late – they hear one of the guards shout in surprise. "Where are the stairs?"

"Sort of – I think sort of central to the building. We want to be heading west."

"West?" Charlie turns and flips his hair out of his face. "Which would be - ?"

"The way we're going now."

"Come on!"

They run further and further into the warren of the building, with Steven giving directions. Sometimes the guards sound far away. Sometimes they sound dangerously close. There's definitely more than one pair of them on the chase. Once, Steven actually sees the blue blob of a guard, before he's pulled around the corner by Charlie – and then he hears the bullet whistling past him, lodging into the wall next to him.

The Russians mean business.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" asks Steven.

"Who, me?" Charlie grins. "Stairs!"

He hustles Steven into the fire escape. Steven starts taking the stairs down, but Charlie drags him the other way.

"We're going to the _roof_?"

"Yes!"

"Are you insane?"

But Steven has no choice except to follow Charlie, tripping and scrambling in an effort to keep up as Charlie takes the stairs two at a time. They manage three flights till a bang below lets them know that they're being followed again. Steven feels distinctively like a rabbit, being hunted down with his heart beating in his chest at a million beats a minute.

And then it's cold, and they're not running anymore. Steven wipes sweat from his eyes – it doesn't help his vision, as the wind whips against his face.

"Come on, genius!" yells Charlie, darting around the rooftop. "Where do we go from here?"

"We could let the guards take us to the front door," says Steven, trying to escape the blast of cold wind in the shelter of the doorway.

"Rise above your name, Meeks!" Charlie whirls away from the side of the rooftop that sits flush with the next door bank – there are no windows, and the wall is too smooth to escape that way. The apartment block on the other side seems more promising, with its myriad balconies, open windows, fire ladders, and washing lines; however, there is an alleyway the width of at least three cars between the apartment block and the rooftop.

"It'd be easier if I had my toolbox and notebook," mumbles Steven. Gingerly he stands on the edge of the rooftop where Charlie is surveying the apartments.

"It'd be easier if I had my boots and wings – but if I did, we wouldn't be in this mess, would we?" Charlie looks over his shoulder. "They'll be here any moment, Stevie! Quick!"

"What?"

"Do you think we can jump this?"

Steven grabs Charlie's arm in surprise as the easterly wind nearly blows him off the edge of the building.

"Are you kidding?"

"You know how fast I can run, how strong I am, how much I weigh. You know how much _you _weigh. You know about – trajectories and things." Charlie holds Steven by the shoulders and stares intently at him. "_Look_. The apartment block. Do you think we can jump it?"

Steven turns to the apartments – a blur of squares and colour, an indeterminable distance away. "I'm not sure if – "

"It's a simple question, Stevie. _Do you trust me_?"

Steven turns back, flabbergasted. "You want to talk about that _now_?"

"Now, yes, now, now would be a very good time to talk about it, don't you think?" He walks back to the fire escape. "They'll be here in two seconds, Stevie. _Do you trust me_?"

"I – "

"_Do you trust me_?"

The door opens behind Charlie. Steven sees two dark blue blobs holding small black blobs in a way that makes them look suspiciously like rifles.

"_Yes_."

In the blink of an eye, Charlie runs across the rooftop, grabs Steven around the waist, and leaps over the edge.


	8. roomies

**(There's a reason this chapter is so long: it was my favourite thing to write. absolute high school fluff. Also, I wanted to be original but I could not resist using Cloudy's idea for the end of this chapter...)**

**Are we there yet? CHAPTER EIGHT.**

* * *

><p>In Steven's first year at Welton, he shared a room with Charlie.<p>

"I'm bunking with _this_ kid?" The boy with the floppy hair and determined mouth entered the dorm room with as much swagger as a thirteen year old in pressed trousers could muster.

Steven looked up from where he sat cross-legged on his bed, reading the latest edition of his favourite comic, but the boy didn't appear to be addressing him in particular. He didn't appear to be addressing anyone. It was just a question to the world, as he threw his suitcase on the empty bed and sat down with a bounce.

Steven wasn't exactly intimidated by him – despite Steven's glasses, his skinny frame, and his overwhelmingly nerdy nature, he was rarely picked on, so he never learnt to be scared of people (his mother said it was because he had 'kind eyes', whatever that meant) – but he was certainly curious.

"Charlie Dalton," said the boy, extending his hand and leaning back on his suitcase at the same time; a move that would have forced Steven to get off the bed to shake his hand, if Steven hadn't decided to stay where he was.

"Steven Meeks," he said, smiling politely. Charlie raised his eyebrow, and studied Steven openly. Apparently the fact that the boy didn't leap up to shake his hand had him intrigued as well.

"How old are you?"

"Twelve," said Steven.

"You look seven," said Charlie. "Aren't you too young to be in this grade?"

"I skipped a year," said Steven, simply.

"So – you're smart."

"Yes."

Charlie frowned. "Whatcha reading?"

Steven held up the magazine so Charlie could see the cover. This was a particularly great issue – nearly half the pages were printed in colour, and the green of the sea dragons was particularly gorgeous, Steven thought.

"Well, that's definitely for babies," said Charlie.

"If you say so." Steven smiled. He had long known that smiling was the most annoying thing one could do to a potential bully.

"I bet you don't smoke either." He pulled a single cigarette from his pocket. Steven supposed he had probably nicked it from his father.

"No. I don't."

Then another boy appeared at the door – Steven recognised him from the assembly. He was a friendly kid; looked like he was made out of pipe cleaners and soap bubbles.

"Dalton!"

"Perry!" Charlie slid off the bed and the two gave each other an elaborate handshake; one they'd probably been working on all summer.

"Who'd you get?" asked Neil.

"This is Steven Meeks. He reads comic books and is very smart."

"How do you do?" said Neil, bounding across the room to shake Steven's hand. "I'm Neil Perry. Hey, is that the edition where – "

"Come on, Perry. Let's go." Charlie wafted the cigarette in front of Neil's face, and Neil laughed.

"Wanna join us?" Neil asked.

"He doesn't smoke," said Charlie. "Let's _go_."

"I'll see you around," said Neil, waving goodbye. Charlie gave Steven another long look, that Steven didn't quite understand but made him feel like an overexposed photo; then he left.

It was going to be an interesting year.

* * *

><p>Steven didn't see much of Charlie in those first weeks – Charlie mostly hung out with Neil in every spare moment, right up until Lights Out when he would saunter back into the dorm room. Steven didn't mind – he had quickly become friends with a tall giraffe-like boy named Pitts who shared his love of science and blowing things up; and he did his Latin homework with a fellow red-head named Cameron, though he suspected they had less in common than Cameron liked to suggest.<p>

Still, Steven remained curious about Charlie, from what little he saw of him in classes, across the dining hall, and last thing at night. He was of a medium build, but somehow seemed much taller; smart, but gave the impression of not caring; licentious, but Steven saw him slip leftovers from lunch to the caretaker's dog one afternoon.

It was a Sunday night, the end of a long weekend of sleeping late, pretending to study, and generally mucking about; Steven sat on his bed, reading peacefully, but Neil had gone to his parents' house for dinner and Charlie was forced back to the dorm room early.

"You still at it?" he asked, unbuttoning his shirt with the kind of nonchalance that he would never grow out of.

"Yes," said Steven, not bothering to look up.

"What is it?" Shirtless, Charlie grabbed the book from Steven's hands and sat on the edge of the bed. "'_Greek Mythology_'?" If Steven had been reading the phonebook, Charlie could not have sounded more dubious.

"I enjoy it," said Steven. He reached out to take the book back, but Charlie leapt out of his way, bounding onto his own bed. Steven sighed loudly.

"Nuh-uh, Meeks." Charlie wagged his finger. "Not till I know what's so great about _Greek mythology_. Hey, that rhymes. Meeks, Greek."

"If you want to know what it's about you could try reading it. You do know how to read, don't you?"

Charlie glared at Steven. "Fine." He settled onto the bed, still in his trousers, and opened the book to the first page.

Steven waited – then yawned – then reached over to turn the lamp off.

"Oh no. You wanted me to read this. You keep that light on."

Charlie sat up for two hours after Lights Out for the entire week. Steven couldn't sleep with the light on, and supposed this was some kind of weird bullying technique to make him tired and stupid in the mornings.

Finally, at 11 o'clock on the following Sunday night, when Steven had just resigned himself to the fact that he would be unable to answer any questions in maths the next morning, Charlie slammed the book shut and threw it back on Steven's bed.

"Thank goodness," Steven grumbled. He leant across to the desk lamp – then caught an odd look in Charlie's face. "What?"

"Your mind must be an interesting place," said Charlie.

Steven frowned. It was probably the strangest thing anyone had said to him, and he wasn't quite sure how to take it. "Wait – did you actually _read_ it?"

"Of course I did."

"But _why_?"

"Because the characters are cool and do cool things?" Charlie raised an eyebrow.

"No, I mean – why did you read it? It's nine hundred and thirty-six pages long."

"Because you dared me to."

Steven still hovered with his hand over the lamp switch, unsure of what to do. Clearly his roommate was a complete idiot. That, or – something else. He turned off the light.

* * *

><p>"<em>Yaaugh<em>!"

With all the grace of two mountain goats, the two boys fell off the wardrobe and onto Charlie's bed in a tangle of limbs.

"Quick quick! To the boat!" yelled Charlie, leaping from his bed to Steven's. Steven jumped the gap, and nearly didn't make it.

"Save yourself!" he gasped, clinging to the edge of the bed and waving a hand in the air.

"Not if I can help it!" Charlie grabbed Steven's hand and pulled him aboard. Once Steven was safely off the floor, Charlie threw his pillow across the room. "Look out! Sharks!"

"Mosquito sharks!" said Steven.

"Mosquito sharks?" Charlie looked puzzled.

"They're like sharks, but they can fly, and they buzz in your ear. They're very annoying."

"Nggh – gah – back!" Charlie swatted his hands in front of his face, and this time Steven really did fall off the bed, laughing. "Nooo! Meeks!"

"What's going on?"

Simultaneously Charlie and Steven looked to the door, where Neil was standing with Knox behind him, staring in bewilderment at Steven lying on the floor and Charlie leaning over the edge of the bed, their hair rumpled and their shirts untucked.

"What does it look like?" asked Charlie, seriously.

"I can tell you what it looks like," said Cameron as he joined the group.

Red-faced, Steven got to his feet and sat on Charlie's bed. He adjusted his glasses and smoothed his hair back.

"Meeks stole my homework," Charlie said. Steven nodded solemnly.

"Oh," said Neil. He frowned. He wasn't the only one who thought that was completely implausible.

After a long, silent, awkward pause the interlopers left the doorway. Steven threw the pillow back at Charlie, who caught it neatly.

"You're insane, Meeks." He grinned. "How did you even come up with the idea in the first place?"

Steven shrugged, and flopped back onto Charlie's bed. It felt different to his own; smelt different. It was strangely comforting. He shuffled around and kicked his legs up against the wall. "Well, when you're a genius like me…"

Outside, the rain poured. Steven closed his eyes, content with an afternoon well spent playing 'The Floor is Made of Lava'. It was nice seeing this side of Charlie; for all their differences, something had just _clicked_ between them and they seemed to get along well after all. Then he heard the creaking of bed springs and felt the mattress sink as Charlie joined him, so that they lay side by side on the bed.

Funny, thought Steven. This is the sort of things best friends do. But Steven didn't consider Charlie his best friend. Maybe it was because Charlie already had Neil for that. But in some indefinable way, he didn't _want _Charlie to be his best friend. He turned and studied the side of Charlie's face – the slope of his brow, his nose, his pouting chin. There was something in the line of his profile, something classic, timeless.

This boy – Steven realised – this boy was the only person he had met in his twelve years of existence who had enough swagger and bravado and stupidity, the only person who had enough _guts_ to play the hero in the epic tale of tragedy and triumph he was writing for his life.

He wasn't quite sure what it meant then, in the grey dormitory room with the rain drizzling down the window, but he knew it was the beginning.


	9. The end!

**Chapter nine.**

* * *

><p>Steven feels like origami gone wrong.<p>

Something is pressing into his neck and he's not really sure which limbs are his arms and which are his legs, or if that's even a relevant question to ask. He opens his eyes slowly as if he might break them with any sudden movement, and snow falls gently onto his eyelashes.

"Are you alive?" The voice comes from far away, somewhere buried, deep within the earth.

"I don't know." Above him he can see the vague, blurred flapping of material in so many colours and patterns, fluttering in the wind like sails on a ship. Maybe he's at sea. That would be nice. He's always wanted to sail the ocean. "Wait – are _you_ alive?" he asks the voice.

"Possibly," says the voice. "It's hard to tell."

Steven feels himself being rolled onto his side and his face smushes against something smooth and soft, like paper. Beneath him, Charlie sits up gingerly, with as much success as a drunkard under a bridge. Charlie groans. "Are they still following us?"

"Don't know," Steven says to the cardboard box and the banana peel that's slipped onto his nose.

Charlie grabs a hold of something, which turns out to be Steven's ribs, and he yelps as Charlie manages to sit up, successfully this time. "That was quite a fall." He holds Steven under the arms and pulls him up.

They sit blinking at each other in the dark recesses of the dumpster. Charlie removes an apple core from Steven's hair, and runs his thumb down Steven's cheek. They grin, stupidly.

"Hey!" A shout from above. They haven't been forgotten.

"So much for the interlude." Charlie grimaces, and hoists Steven over the edge of the dumpster, landing next to him. Instinctively, he grabs Steven's hand, and they run through the alleyway and onto the main road, then into a maze of laneways and sidestreets, overturning boxes of vegetables and nearly running down an group of old women on a corner, until even they couldn't find themselves, let alone the Russian FBI.

"Did we lose them?" Steven gasps, squinting into the distance.

"I think so." Charlie collapses against a wall, and Steven squats down next to him.

"Welcome to the life of a superhero," Charlie says in his TV personality voice. Steven doesn't even know why that's so funny but suddenly laughter is competing with physical exertion for what's left of his lungs.

"It's not _that_ funny."

"Well," Steven manages to say. "I'm alive. You're alive. It's pretty damn hilarious, wouldn't you say?"

Charlie grins, and crosses his arms as looks up and down the little street. Then something out of the corner of his eye makes him turn to Steven, and he pulls him up by the shoulders.

Steven groans. "Oh, no. No more running – "

"Stevie."

"What?"

"Stevie – your _glasses_. Where are your glasses?"

"Oh gosh, do you think they might have broken when we fell into the dumpster?"

Charlie seems to find some relief in this, and visibly relaxes. Steven thinks about it. "Actually, no. No, I left them in the cell."

"But – " Charlie pushes his hair back. "But – then – on the rooftop – could you see – I mean – "

"What?" The spectacle of Charlie lost for words is both entertaining and unnerving, as Steven realises exactly what Charlie is asking about.

"You couldn't see the balcony."

The balcony? What balcony?

"Not really, no."

"I asked you if we could make it to the balcony and you said yes."

"No." Steven rubs his eyebrow. "No, you asked me if we could make it to the apartment block which I could hardly see and then you asked me if I trusted you and _then _I said yes. I assumed you knew we would make it – didn't you?"

"I had no fucking idea."

"So… Cameron's right," says Steven.

"How's that?"

"We're both idiots."

Charlie scratches his head, as if considering the idea. "It's possible."

And then he smiles, and it seems to Steven that he can actually see Charlie better without his glasses; because really, when Steven thinks about it, the only person he trusts more than himself is Charlie. He's known him for fifteen years – more than half his life – and he doesn't care that this is the first time he's felt this way: he doesn't want to wait another fifteen years to prove to himself that what he feels is real.

"Come on, blind man," he hears Charlie say, turning to the sunset that has, with sheer determination, appeared on the edge of the heavy grey clouds.

Steven feels bold. He feels invincible. He feels unutterably stupid.

"Charlie."

Charlie stops, turns back. Steven stands, resting his weight on one leg, then shifting it to the other. Unsure, certain.

"Will you marry me?"

It's not a proposal so much as a genuine question. He knows that it's not the sort of question that a man asks another man, or that a genius inventor asks a superhero, and it's definitely not the sort of question that Steven Meeks asks Charlie Dalton; and for a moment, as the words come out of his mouth they sound silly, like bamboo and canvas strung together to make fake pretend wings –

– but it doesn't really matter, Steven realises, if Richard Cameron or the FBI or the entire fucking planet things they're not wings. All that matters is that the person standing opposite him thinks they're good to fly.

Charlie looks like he's either going to punch Steven or like Steven's punched him – or both. He steps towards him, steps into his space, and somehow, Steven holds his ground; literally braces himself for whatever happens next.

"Yes," says Charlie.

"Oh," says Steven. "Wait – what? No. I meant it. No. You should think about it. You should definitely think about." He can't help it. He's Steven. He thinks thinking is important.

"Oh, okay." Charlie turns and looks at the sunset, hands in his pockets. He tilts his head on the side, and makes clicking noises with his tongue. Then he turns back.

"I've thought about it. The answer is yes."

He pulls Steven towards him, wraps his arms around his waist, holds him as his own, and kisses him like they're the only two people in the middle of downtown Moscow. He can't help it. He's Charlie. He thinks kissing is important. And between them, with the thinking and the kissing and the everything else, they might just be able to rule the world.

* * *

><p><strong>Thank you, thank you, thank you so much if you've gotten to the end of this. It's the longest, crackiest, fluffiest thing I've ever written. I hope you enjoyed it :D<strong>


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